Solaris Wooden Clock Plan

Wounds that can be healed [2/3]

Title: Wounds That Can Be Healed
Author: rosa_elefante
Group: Arashi
Characters: Aiba Masaki, Sakurai Sho
Pairing: Sakuraiba
Genre: yaoi, angst
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: sequel to Hearts 'Bounds
Summary: with Hearts' Bounds, were examined Sho and Aiba's thoughts on their relationship, now ended. Here we return to the present, to see how they are living this break.
Notes: is divided into three parts: one for Sho, one for Aiba, and one for both. The sentences at the beginning of each part are from the song Aitakute Aitakute of Kana Nishino
Disclaimer: With my writing, published without any profit, I will not give true representation of the character of these people, or offend in any way.
Parties previous HERE

"Baby I know
Kimi wa mou watashi no mono ja nai koto kurai
doushitemo Demo kimi ja dame nakya
by Kara
You are the one "


" Baby I know That you're not mine anymore

But I can not help it, you are the
one for me You are the one "

AIBA

Tokyo: seven in the afternoon. Aiba
closes the door with his shoulder and quick steps along the corridor of the building, casually dropping the buttons of his coat.
always starts to undress before getting into the house: it is a habit that has not yet lost, he was a boy.
Sometimes in the summer, when it's hot, is capable of reaching the first landing that has already taken off his shirt. Sho
the fuckin 'normally for that.
And for a lot of other things - to be honest.
jokes about each other's eccentricities was fairly common occurrence, among them: a way to exorcise the daily difficulties of living together so long, perhaps. Or maybe just
complicity.
game lovers.
But sometimes things are just like that, those who are missing more: seemingly unimportant things, often taken for granted. Futile.
As the copy of the New York Times that Sho was made to send every day to train with the English and that even today Aiba collected by step, through.
Why do people go away, but they leave behind objects. Habits.
And you seem to see it everywhere, sometimes, the imprint of their passage. Even when you do not want to see
nothing. Even when you
seems to have done, to take back your life.
Just a nothing and emptiness of absence returns to dig the stomach. A worm sneaky, voracious.
The folly of being lost to fantasize that opening the door is still possible to find his coat, sull'attaccapanni. His ashtrays scattered around the house. And his body, left the chair.
The heart speeds up slowly while Aiba rewinds the tape of a film already seen hundreds of times - learned by heart: he bends his knees in front, Sho raising his eyes slowly.
The eyes that meet. A hint of a smile.
The palm of the hand down the crotch - the form of sex to stretch the fabric, under your fingers. And the crazy sensation of hearing to grow in the mouth after. The slow
is urgent, and the taste of her pleasure.
for his silence.
Certain images have the bad habit of puncturing the skin at inopportune moments, like tiny pins sunk into his back.
Diverting the mind is useless.
is not easy to manage, the nostalgia.
-Fuck-hisses between his teeth.

sometimes lower their guard because of fatigue.
exhaustion, or simple inattention.
Sometimes when you grant to undress for a moment the usual armor and you stop to watch what color your skin has really - and what form the bones little drawing wrists - even the ringing of the phone can penetrate the meat.
was always too easy to be surprised. Too.
Months have passed, but Aiba is not yet accustomed to the vacuum of air that blows in the stomach when the voice of Sho pronounce his name into the phone, and suddenly the smile died on his lips.
is like a gust of wind shuffles the cards, which confuses and stuns. How
fall in flight, feel the ground as you swallow.
break.
And hurry to reassemble the pieces later, with the desperate frenzy of those who must at all costs to stand up. For pride, mostly. As always
state.
The only concern at that moment, there seems to be to ascertain the extent of the damage - to assess how much blood is lost on impact, or have broken bones.
wounds.
The priority is to stifle the silence because I can not speak. Why not extend the time beyond the limit of embarrassment, and one can not understand. See.
cards are back on the table, suddenly.
The game is already playing, and no time to decline the invitation, as always it is up to you, the burden of the first move.
strategy game - nerves. The face stripped
of each expression and the look that must remain perfectly still, when our eyes meet.
Choose the time of recovery could be a matter of win or lose the opportunity to discover another hand and the cards is a gamble that must be assessed with all the attention the case: a single misstep would be enough because the piles of fishes rubble collapsing on the table. And Aiba
has always known: The purpose of this comparison is not to win but just stay in the game. Frustration and adrenaline junkies until another round of cards becomes the only thing that you can think.
Repetition Compulsion.
Madness, perhaps. But seven years
Sho were mainly this: a never-ending challenge. An unequal struggle, with arms carved in stone and arranged precarious trenches in the sand.
We would laugh, thinking about it.
Why even children on the beach build something so unstable, wet earth and yet those barriers are still there: ancient ruins of a fort that the other has never even noticed.
not on the beach that is taking its own steps Sho - its land is complicated paths.
curves and hills and brambles. And
Masaki has always been alone and watch the sunset over the ocean: a photograph - fix on glossy paper - in the hope of making it less pathetic. More interesting. A particular
them with blood.
Blood.
have been a slow trickle, those seven years.
A continuous transfusion of lifeblood, in the hope of one day to change the skin to not look too young.
And it was a massacre.
Every time I talked for hours - every time Sho nodded absently, trying to give him attention - it was a massacre.
was a massacre when any provocation at war with its silence, when all sank in calm hysteria perfectly rational for an eyebrow raised.
There were days he could take a knife, Aiba, and cut his fingers one by one force only to lift his head by Sho books, its useless bundles of papers. To feel his hands tight on the wrists - to see her fear.
But it was worth it. Only
penalty. Caring for a child
unstable to give him the opportunity to become an integrated adult - its mission. The task for which he voted for life.
passion has nothing to do with all this.
passion going in different directions, and scheduled to be Sho. It should be built day after day, pretending to safety even while everything collapses. As you swallow the need to pray for strength. To hear him repeat your name. While
die within him and want to cry, and you know you can not.
You can not.
again become the child to be saved, otherwise. A clot of passions to unravel and order - the greatest stimulus.
And be your man dying at the margins.
The definitive renunciation of yourself.
no alternatives.
But Sho is a powerful poison - continues to act in the blood even now.
Her voice glides quietly, in the handset, and there is nothing: not the air that filled the lungs, not letting go of the enthusiasm for life. Not the battery, the relief of not having to measure words and gestures.
Nothing.
Only the need to stay in the game once again. And the frustration that seems to dig the meat - the anger. The urge to scream for him snatch finally, some sort of reaction. But would not it
I miss . Would not I need you .
It would perhaps say a quiet: All right, Masaki?
And his attention to his advice. Its support. All
shit.
nausea rising in his throat - which takes you back to the top. Seven years ago. When really, you were a child. When you could have anyone and did not see him.
Because no matter how many people are looking for you, for your looks or your reputation.
No matter how you felt well with others - as I was free.
Sho was not nice, or much fun. It was good, yes.
Still, it was the engine of all. Was the glorification of indescribable
stirred in your hands - in your mouth - with the knowledge that his pleasure was intoxicating for you. That we had.
What were perfect, that the world was perfect.
What he was perfect.
Bullshit.
bullshit stories like those that now, as the entry forms on its own tone check and make sure everything goes fine. What have you already put his belongings in boxes, the remaining ones, and that if you want to send it tomorrow. Nay, you need space.
You've bought a battery, you want to put it in his studio.
Bullshit. Why
only now you realize that you've never even tried to get rid of his stuff.
We have not even thought of.
You move among us every day, like a sleepwalker who knows the route by heart.
And the tragic thing is that it does not hurt.
Simply, those objects are part of you. Are reflections of who you are - how absurd the states that are staging the phone. As the rage of find yourself having to repeat once again. As the empty stomach, which again feeds the calmness of his voice.
its control.

Fate can be very funny. Or very bastard.
Aiba was convinced, after two months, to be successful and regain the reins of her life without Sho.
To be freed.
Curiously, he realizes to be otherwise during a tour. That is what he loves most after Arashi.
During rehearsals, precisely.
He says several times that he is tired, not feeling well. Who prefers to come to rest rather than just watching the Sho. There
test.
But it remains there, cursing everyone and everything.
Then his eyes fell on stage and, suddenly, everything else simply stops there.
The feeling - very clear - to recognize the shape of the hips moving against the light and the mind that is slow to develop. The blood stops.
Then, suddenly, snapshot. A
body. His. Aiba
straightens his back, while the blood falls to the foot for no reason. Without him more able to recognize the boundaries of that place, and its present. Of the moment.
One step after another, Sho moves on stage.
Slowly.
Like a wave, like fate. Like those things that you know that I can afford and that is why you find yourself to be desired, with the glorification of suicide gestures meaningless.
As the sudden burst of electric guitar.
As the vibration of the bass. He walks
plan - which is wrapped in a black night, and ink - and Masaki seem to hear move on the skin. It might be inspiration. Or excitement.
Or else - the memory of a scent imprinted in my mind, the curve of her pouting mouth. Those mysterious eyes - remote. Savages. And when
closes his fist on the shaft of the microphone, looking up from behind the eye, the vertigo is so violent that it almost feels Aiba die.
Nor is it more erotic. There is nothing
already experienced nor known: it is the absolute tip of each perspective, the trace of this you draw the curve of her hips.
His voice.
A shiver.
Aiba gets wet lips, and while the words on the slide tracks of music heard - with crystal clarity that only give you the folly knows - that a period of his life ends there. The tone of his voice.
Then, whatever happens, he will never be the same person is now.
But again the boy madly in love with twenty years of his workmate. Why Sho
dig her body, still, it bends like a bow, because there is a sense of inevitability that almost scares in the air, and there are whispers. His words
imagine the skin.
Time collapses in verse as old as the rocks, caressing movements of his wounds forgotten, and when the music turns off Aiba could not say whether it is after one hour or overnight.
A lifetime.
It takes a decision.